Bouncing Back
by TJ-TeeJay
Summary: Another illegal back room operation, it had seemed so straightforward. Neal had done this a number of times. Maybe they were getting sloppy, but this one hadn't quite turned out the way Neal  or anyone  had expected. PG-13, Gen.


**Title:** Bouncing Back  
**Author: **TeeJay  
**Summary:** Another illegal back room operation, it had seemed so straightforward. Neal had done this a number of times. Maybe they were getting sloppy, but this one hadn't quite turned out the way Neal (or anyone) had expected.  
**Written for: **kriadydragon for the LiveJournal collarcorner Prompt Fest #3  
**Prompt/Request:** "What could possibly go wrong?"  
**Characters:** Neal, Peter, anyone else you would like  
**Would Like:** An undercover operation in which things go wrong for reasons beyond anyone's control, and Neal is caught in the middle. Neal getting roughed up in some way, with lots of comfort and protective Peter afterwards. I'm very much a sucker for aftermath so if you want to jump straight to Neal being rescued/found/helped/what-have-you I'm cool with that  
**Don't Want: **Neal being at fault. Major whump in which the entire story is nothing but Neal being explicitly tortured (example: strung up by his wrists and whipped/scored with knives).  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Genre:** Gen  
**Warnings:** Hm, I dunno... Graphic violence warning for folks with a vivid imagination? Also, spoilers for 1x14 'Out of the Box'.  
**Author's Note:** I think we need to form a Neal!Whumpers Anonymous. Is there a way to set up a 12 Steps manifesto towards how not to enjoy writing/reading about one of your favorite characters getting hurt? I surely need it because this prompt totally pushed my buttons. *sigh* So here I go. Again. And I'm warning you, this one's a doozy.  
PS: Partially inspired by the author's ridiculously amazing stunt of spraining her pinky in her sleep.  
PPS: Once more, thank you to the wonderful rabidchild67 for the beta-read and the wonderful advice to take this one further than I initially meant to.  
**Disclaimer:** Bla bla Jeff Eastin, bla bla USA Network. Bla bla not mine, not making any money from this. Bla bla characters totally mine, especially Neal, uhm, welcome.

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Peter could hear the scream all the way through the door. It was laced with physical pain—unmistakably so.

"Neal!" he yelled, throwing his weight against the locked door once again, but to no avail. Another piercing scream unsettled the silence; Peter was blinded with almost uncontrollable anger and agitation. Where the hell was backup?

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Another illegal back room operation, it had seemed so straightforward. Neal had done this a number of times. Maybe they were getting sloppy, but this one hadn't quite turned out the way Neal (or anyone) had expected.

He had no idea how the thugs had figured out he was playing with loaded dice. The thought had crossed his mind that someone (who?) must have snitched, because they were supposed to be almost impossible to detect.

However, that became the least of his worries when the two burly security guys threw him against the wall.

Neal knew not to blow the whistle, or at least not with the real truth. Still, the fabricated story he told didn't hold up to scrutiny. These guys were not hearing what they wanted to hear.

The first time he'd not managed to suppress a scream was when one of them had bent his left arm so far up his back that he thought it would pop out of its joint.

The second time he'd not been able to hold back a scream was when they had pulled him around and yanked his arm forward and up. His shoulder joint screamed along in protest. He wasn't sure if maybe it wasn't already dislocated.

"Please," he said in a whispered plea. "I've told you what I know."

"Bullshit!" the beefy man with the slicked back hair bellowed.

He grabbed Neal's pinky and pulled it upwards at a well practiced angle. Neal heard the bone snap before he heard his own scream.

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Dammit!

Peter winced with every new scream, and it was driving him blind with rage. Then, suddenly, it went quiet. Too quiet. This worried Peter even more.

"Neal!" he bellowed, but it was futile. The door was still between him and his partner.

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"Useless little sucker!"

Neal could barely hear it over the sharp pain that was spreading from his finger and shoulder right up into his brainstem. He clenched his teeth in a vain attempt to mute the moan that escaped his throat.

And then, he didn't even know where it came from, sudden rage exploded from his belly. The pain momentarily forgotten, he lashed out, knocking his elbow right into his captor's stomach. The element of surprise gave him the upper hand, but only for about two seconds.

McMuscle quickly recovered, and with a cry of anger he lunged himself at Neal from behind. Something was pressing against Neal's throat, and he tried to clamor at the arm that pressed against his larynx, gasping for much needed air.

The pain in his hand and shoulder was back with a vengeance, and it made it hard to offer resistance that would make any kind of difference. Even if he hadn't been incapacitated, Neal would barely have had a passing chance to go against McMuscle.

Struggling to get air into his lungs for another breath and failing, Neal felt the room around him fade, stars dancing in front of his eyes. In between the panic and the desperation, it briefly occurred to him that this might be it, and that it'd be a certain kind of twisted irony that it wasn't how he had imagined he'd leave this world.

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"Neal!" Peter yelled again.

Seconds were turning into hours, minutes into eternities. Finally, he heard the heavy footsteps of the FBI team running in. The metal ram quickly got the door open, and Peter stormed in with the rest of the response team, guns drawn.

It was over in all but ten seconds, the bad guys down on the floor, guns and other weapons quickly knocked out of the way.

As soon as Peter was sure the scene was secure, his eyes searched for Neal.

He found him slumped with his back leaning against the wall, eyes closed. Was he unconscious? He couldn't tell.

"Neal," Peter exhaled, crouching by his side. "Neal," he repeated, softly touching his shoulder.

He withdrew his hand immediately when Neal winced in pain, emitting a groan that made Peter stop dead in his tracks. Neal was cradling his left elbow in his right hand, pressing it against his body. What had they done to him?

Peter whipped around, bellowing at the nearest agent, "Call an ambulance! Now!"

"Neal," he repeated to the young man, his voice urgent. He looked for blood on Neal's body, but saw none. "What is it? Did they shoot you? Where are you hurt?"

With obvious effort, Neal turned his lower arm so that the palm of his hand faced up, exposing his slightly curled fingers. The hand was shaking. "They broke my finger," he said, his voice barely audible it was so strained.

Peter carefully reached out with his hand. "Can I see?"

Neal only nodded. When Peter touched Neal's hand, Neal's face contorted in pain. The whimper that came over his lips clamped around Peter's heart. He immediately let go of Neal when he saw tears of pain running from his squeezed shut eyes.

"I'm sorry," Peter whispered. "Geez, we need to get you to a hospital. Can you walk? Is it just the hand?"

It took Neal a few moments to compose himself. "Not sure. They tried to strangle me. My shoulder—I think it's dislocated."

Peter looked stranded, unsure what to do. Neal seemed to be in so much pain, he was afraid to touch him. And he didn't think Neal would be able to get up without help. Clumsily, Peter asked, "Do you want to wait for the ambulance?"

Neal drew in a shaky breath and nodded feebly.

"Okay," Peter said, as much in reassurance for himself as for Neal. "Okay," he repeated. He looked around, but the room had emptied in the meantime. "Let me go check for the ambulance," he muttered.

"Peter. Please—" Neal's voice was filled with a level of desperation alien to Peter.

_Please what? Don't go?_ Shit, the kid was in agony and scared out of his mind. "It's okay, Neal. I'll stay. The ambulance will be here soon, okay?"

Not knowing what else to do, Peter sat down next to Neal's right. His breaths were coming out in uneven gasps and tremors were running over his body.

Peter had never felt so helpless in his life. He hesitated, then gave in to the impulse and softly placed his palm on Neal's thigh, hoping it would not inflict more pain. Neal didn't flinch and just closed his eyes, drawing in a long, steadying breath.

There was no need for words and they just sat for the 10-minute eternity it took for EMS to arrive.

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As soon as Peter made it outside, following the EMTs who had managed to get Neal onto a gurney, he was waylaid by the response team's supervisor. Peter could only watch as Neal was pushed into the rig, and he quickly told the supervisor, "I'll be right back."

He jogged over to the ambulance just as one of the EMTs was slamming the back doors shut.

"Where are you taking him?" he asked the EMT.

"Lenox Hill."

"Can you tell Neal that I'm going to be there as soon as I can?"

"Yeah, sure."

Peter was detained at the scene much longer than he felt comfortable. In the end, he didn't even know how long it was. An hour, surely—maybe even longer.

Thankfully, the hospital wasn't far. It took flashing his badge to two different nurses for them to let him into the emergency room, only to find out Neal was currently being treated. Peter was sent back to the waiting area.

He wasn't good with waiting. In fact, he sucked at it. Patients and family members eyed him warily when he started pacing. Peter didn't care. His cell phone rang, and he earned more warning looks when he accepted the call. More FBI business, and Peter wanted to curse. He managed to hold back his anger and frustration.

Finally, a nurse asked for him by name. He couldn't get out of the waiting area fast enough.

Neal sat on an examination table in an area that was curtained off. His left arm was in a gray sling, his pinky finger in a splint that reached down the side of his palm. An ugly bruise was starting to form on his neck. He guessed they had given him sedatives and pain medication, possibly a local anesthetic when they reduced the shoulder. Neal looked like death warmed over, but that was hardly a surprise.

"Hey," Peter tried to sound upbeat, yet sympathetic at the same time. "So, you okay? They fix you up?"

He saw that Neal struggled to rearrange the Caffrey mask, not quite succeeding. "Yeah. Guess I'm good to go."

"What's the verdict?"

"Pretty straightforward. Some bruising. Dislocated shoulder, fractured proximal phalanx. Nothing that won't heal in a few weeks."

"And they're letting you out of here?"

"What, you don't wanna take my word for it?"

"Neal," Peter sighed. "I guess I just—" _What? Want to get a second opinion?_ He rubbed a weary hand over his face. "I'm sorry. Did they say anything about follow-up? Pain meds?"

"Yeah, they, uh..." Neal hesitated, scrunching up his face in an effort to string things together into something that would make sense. Peter figured it was probably the sedatives.

Neal's hurt feelings notwithstanding, he made a decision. "Okay, I'll be right back."

The nurse outside lectured him on HIPAA and that she wasn't allowed to give out any information about Neal's treatment, even when he showed her his badge and explained Neal's situation. Peter could finally persuade her to come back with him to where Neal was still patiently sitting.

He hated making a fuss, but he managed to get the nurse to repeat to Neal what they had told him earlier, with Peter well within earshot. The abbreviated version was: Lots of rest, follow-up with the GP at regular intervals, prescription painkillers as needed. It sounded easy enough.

"Let's go," Peter finally encouraged.

Neal shuffled out of the room and Peter watched him worriedly from behind. Neal had been in sticky situations before, and he'd been roughed up before—but not this badly and not with such unbridled violence. He wondered just how deeply this had cracked Neal's façade.

"So, where am I taking you?" he asked Neal. "I'm sure El won't mind if I bring you with me tonight."

"I just wanna go home," Neal said, his voice weary.

Peter didn't like the idea, but he acquiesced. For Neal's sake. At the very least, he'd give Mozzie a call later, hoping the Little Man could keep an eye on Neal.

In the Taurus, Neal leaned his head against the head rest and they drove in silence. This worried Peter more than anything, because normally Neal couldn't shut up whenever they were driving. There'd either be fumbling with the car computer or radio or just general chatter that was sometimes mind-boggling, sometimes thoroughly entertaining and sometimes majorly annoying.

Peter stopped at a pharmacy on the way to get the prescriptions for Neal. When he got back to the car, Neal looked white as a sheet and Peter could see that he was trembling slightly. Delayed shock due to adrenaline wearing off?

"Neal, are you okay?" Peter asked worriedly as he got into the driver's seat.

"Yeah, I'm fine," came the noncommittal, well choreographed answer.

"Like hell you are. You're still in shock. What can I do?"

"Just drive."

Peter did, but not before he wrestled out of his suit jacked and helped Neal drape it around his shoulders.

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Neal had refused help to get up to the apartment. More assurance that he'd be fine, but none of them deterred Peter from escorting him upstairs.

Peter wondered once more if taking Neal here had really been the smartest idea. He could just see the man standing forlornly by the window, reliving the horrific afternoon. Maybe he was supposed to give Neal more credit than that, but he'd not seen him this vulnerable, not even after Kate's death. Peter still remembered the time when Neal was released from prison, when his hands would sometimes shake uncontrollably, when the only thing Peter could think of to help was distraction.

And Peter got it. Neal was an artist, a person who was very visually oriented. It was something that most people might consider a blessing, but in this case was definitely a curse.

He watched as Neal slipped off his shoes without bothering to open the shoe laces and gingerly sat down on the couch. Even though Peter knew that there was pressing business waiting for him at the office, he also knew he couldn't leave Neal here by himself.

"I think I need a drink," Neal said in a jaded voice.

Peter surely understood, but surprised himself by remembering something. "I don't think that's a particularly good idea. Painkillers and alcohol don't mix."

"I don't care."

"_I_ do."

"Peter, you're no fun."

He mumbled, "Yeah, I don't think I'm supposed to be," but it was too low for Neal to hear.

For lack of anything better to do, he looked for mugs and tea in Neal's kitchenette. Neal was more of a coffee kinda guy, but coffee would be just as counterproductive as alcohol right now. He finally found an herbal tea that didn't scream cold or stomach flu and put on some water.

When he handed Neal one of the steaming mugs a few minutes later, he could see unvarnished exhaustion in Neal's features.

Peter settled on the couch next to Neal, sipping at the tea, pleasantly surprised that it tasted better than he thought.

Awkward silence settled, which Neal broke after a while. "Don't you have to go to the office?" It didn't sound harsh, Neal possibly just wondered.

"That can wait."

It seemed like Neal only just remembered something. "Wait. I botched this whole operation. Hughes is gonna be pissed. I should have—"

"Neal," Peter interrupted. "You did fine. No one could have known this would happen."

"The dice, they somehow figured it out. I... I don't know how. Did you... Can you still arrest them?"

"Relax, we got them. They've all been taken in. I'm sure there's gonna be charges that'll stick."

"Yeah, but not for running an illegal gambling den."

"Look. It happens. You don't always get them. Not on the first try, anyway."

"Still sucks, though."

"Yeah," Peter sighed. And he meant less the busted operation than more the consequences that Neal was now facing.

Neal shifted his position on the couch, drawing in a wincing breath as he did. It reminded Peter of something and he got up to produce two orange plastic bottles from his jacket. He held them up for Neal to see.

"Need some of these?"

Neal shook his head. "No, I'm good."

Peter would never understand why Neal had to play the freakin' hero all the time, even in the private confines of his apartment with only the two of them present. "Are you sure?"

"Peter, your concern is touching, but I'm fine. Really."

Peter squinted his eyes in scrutiny, still not believing the lily white lie. However, there was only so much he could do without becoming the overbearing guardian. He took a long breath. "Okay. Can I leave you by yourself?"

Neal waved his good hand. "Of course. Go."

"You know that you can call anytime, right? Even in the middle of the night."

Neal smiled wearily, for the first time since the busted operation. "Yeah, I've tried that, as you might remember. You were very grumpy and reminded me pointedly that calls at 4 AM weren't welcome."

Peter didn't return the smile. "Yeah, but that was different."

"You mean as in Neal-deserves-some-pity-now different?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

Neal quickly sobered. "Yeah, I know that's not what you meant."

It was good enough for Peter. He put on his jacket. When he turned to leave, Neal added, "And Peter? Don't call Mozzie. I don't need a babysitter."

He turned around, facing Neal. "A) I'm not so sure of that, and B) notice me not making any promises."

There was no annoyance or resentment in Neal's eyes. Peter even thought he detected something akin to gratefulness. He took that as a sign of reassurance that it was okay to call Mozzie.

"Take it easy, okay? I don't want to see you at work the next few days. Call if you need anything."

Neal nodded. "Thank you, Peter."

He walked out of the apartment and the door clicked softly in its lock as Peter left. He made a mental note to keep a close eye on Neal for the next few weeks.

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Two weeks later, the sling had been discarded and Neal was a regular fixture back in the office. The only reminders of the ordeal he'd been through were ginger movements whenever any motion of his left shoulder was involved and the white tape holding Neal's pinky in place alongside the ring finger.

Peter was vigilantly watching Neal from his office whenever he could, trying to detect warning signs or irregularities. So far there hadn't been any.

The absence of worrying signs was worrying in itself. It was hard to believe Neal could just bounce back like that. He wondered if there was more to it than Neal was letting on. Peter considered contacting the Little Guy again, even entertaining the idea of enduring some ridiculously staged 'What color is the mockingbird?' charade in the park—if that was what it took.

It was the next day that Peter finally saw an inkling of what Neal must have managed to hide for the past two weeks.

An involuntary collision with a fellow agent and a full coffee mug had ended badly for Peter's light blue shirt. Peter stormed into the restroom, wiping vainly at his yellow tie, verbally venting his anger as he pushed the door open with force.

Inside the restroom, he was faced with a wide-eyed, panic-stricken Neal who was grabbing on to one of the sinks. His breaths were coming out too fast in harried gasps, beads of sweat laced his forehead.

Peter took a step closer, but Neal winced and shrank back, somewhat subdued panic in his blue eyes. This stopped Peter dead in his tracks, lifting his hands placatingly.

"Neal," Peter half whispered. "Whoa, easy."

Neal seemed to compose himself, his breathing slowing, the panicked look on his face slowly abating.

Peter just stood, suddenly helpless. Finally, he stammered, "Neal, I... Do you need help?"

"No," Neal quickly replied, lifting a hand that was clearly trembling. "I just need a minute."

Quiet seconds ticked by before Peter asked, "This isn't the first time this has happened, is it?"

"What are you talking about?" Neal quickly tried to deflect.

"Oh, come on. I just scared the shit out of you, and it's not because you're tender-footed. And I don't even think it was my little outburst. If I didn't know better, this'd spell PTSD to me. Neal, I really think you should talk to someone."

Neal huffed. "You mean like a shrink?"

"Yeah. No. I don't know. Anyone. You've been keeping this all inside. That's not good."

"Look who's talking," Neal retorted sarcastically.

Peter relaxed his stance, looking at Neal for a long moment. "You don't know this, but I've been where you are. Four years ago, I had to go undercover. It went south very fast. I came out with a broken rib, an eye that was swollen shut for a week and a hell of a concussion.

"I couldn't sleep without waking up screaming for damn near a week. You know, it's mandatory for FBI agents to seek counseling after something like that. Of course I hated it then, but looking back now, it was probably the best thing I could have done."

Neal leaned forward on his arms, then pushed himself back. "What would you say if I said I'll think about it?"

"I'd say that's not good enough."

"Oh yeah? And what are you going to do? Drag me to see a shrink? No thanks, Peter. I'm okay, I'm good."

Peter snorted out a breath through his nose. Damn the man, he would never admit to weakness. Or PTSD, or whatever it was that was haunting him to the point of losing control.

"You're not fine, not even close. You—"

The door to the restrooms opened at that moment and Agent Lilmore strode in, oblivious to the conversation he'd just interrupted. Neal took the welcome opportunity of a relatively easy escape, quickly rearranging the mask. He gave Peter a pointed look and left without another word.

Peter watched him leave and then turned to look at his own reflection in the mirror, briefly flashing back to those harsh weeks after the botched undercover mission. It hadn't been easy, on him or his marriage, and it wasn't something that he readily reminisced about.

And as much has he hated to admit it, it looked like Neal was spiraling down a path that he was all too familiar with. Peter realized he probably shouldn't just let this go.

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Another week later, and it had been the same old thing. Good intentions were pushed into broom closets by things that carried more urgency, more importance. Neal seemed fine, and Peter's worry sought refuge in part of his brain not easily accessible.

Hughes dropped a file on Peter's desk that looked promising. A new challenge. Without second thought, he called Neal to his office to discuss their options. It had actually been Neal who had suggested going in undercover. Peter had given him a long look, unsure of what to make of it. Maybe it was kind of a dare on Neal's part. But Peter was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The next day, they were working out the specifics in Peter's office. Peter slid the floor plans with the warehouse's layout and the surveillance photos across the desk for Neal to look at them. Neal studied them, rubbing his forehead with his index finger. One of the photos seemed to especially draw Neal's attention.

Peter suddenly realized that Neal's hand that was holding the pencil to indicate something on the floor plan was shaking. At first it was just a slight tremor, then it turned into an unmistakable tremble. Neal quickly withdrew his hand and placed it in his lap.

When Peter looked at Neal, he realized beads of sweat had formed on his brow, his face was ashen. And the worry was back with a vengeance. "Okay, we're stopping this, right here and now."

This took Neal by surprise. "What? Why?"

"Because I'm not going any further before you get this under control."

"This what? What are you talking about, Peter?"

"You know damn well what I'm talking about. These panic attacks, the shaking, the flashbacks, whatever it is."

Neal looked stricken, pained. He was cornered, and he knew he couldn't play Peter for a fool on this one any longer. "Are we back to the shrink talk?"

"Yes, we're back to the shrink talk. Neal, I'm serious. You need to see someone about this. I know you really want to believe it'll go away on its own, but it won't."

"So what, you're going to _make_ me see a shrink?"

"If that's what it takes, yes. But I'd rather not have to."

Neal just sat there, his lips pressed together in a straight line.

Neal's stubbornness drove Peter up the wall, but he reminded himself that this was not the time to let it get to him. He tried to soften his voice. "There's someone I know who specializes in this kind of thing. I really would like you to see him."

"'Would like'?" Neal echoed. "It almost sounds like I have a choice."

"You don't."

A disappointed look crossed Neal's face, but Peter chose to ignore it.

"Okay then," Neal said matter-of-factly. "Are we done here?"

"Neal..." Peter tried to placate.

In a sharp, bitter voice, Neal retorted, "Give me the number of your shrink friend. I'll make an appointment first thing tomorrow. Happy now?"

No, of course Peter wasn't happy. None of this made him remotely happy. However, he chose to count his blessings. "Give me five minutes to find out his number."

"Fine."

Without another word, Neal retreated to his desk. Peter brought him the printout with the psychiatrist's number a few minutes later and watched from his office as Neal made the call. Or at least that's what Peter hoped he was doing when Neal picked up the receiver.

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It was three weeks later that Peter watched Neal smile. A real, genuine, carefree Caffrey smile. One that reached his eyes and lit up his face. He was standing in the bullpen with Diana, presumably discussing something non work-related. Diana grinned broadly and gave his upper arm a friendly shove (the previously dislocated one, Peter noticed—and Neal didn't even flinch).

And then Neal laughed, throwing his head back slightly, the way he did when he was truly amused.

The exchange made a smile spread over Peter's own face, and it suddenly felt like a weight was lifted from his shoulders—a weight he hadn't even realized he was carrying.

Neal had indeed made an appointment with the psychiatrist. And just like Peter had expected (hoped, rather), it had led to a second and a third appointment. There hadn't been any recent episodes of involuntarily shaking hands or other signs of panic attacks. At least none that Peter had witnessed.

The next morning, Peter walked into his office and found a white envelope on his desk, leaning against the foot of his computer monitor. His name was written on it in Neal's impeccable handwriting.

Peter carefully opened it and withdrew a birthday card sized piece of cardstock. He recognized the uneven material as drawing paper, and studied the front. It was a pencil drawing of Elizabeth, her face lit up by a vibrant smile—a happy moment perfectly captured. He turned it around, and on the back were two simple words.

_Thank you._

Peter smiled quietly to himself. It was very Neal, and he knew that the simple gesture spoke volumes.

He inserted the drawing back into the envelope and put it in his briefcase to take it home. He'd ask Elizabeth if they could frame it and hang it somewhere for everyone to see. And when Neal came to visit the next time, he'd know what Peter was trying to say to him.

_You're welcome._

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THE END


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